Beneath a Rising Sun

by Peter Watt

  ‘I don’t suppose that you have heard from his mother,’ the doctor growled, putting a stethoscope back into his medical bag.

  ‘Mrs Macintosh is a very busy woman,’ Val said, attempting to defend her employer. ‘She knows that Michael is in good hands with me.’

  ‘Oh, I know that you are an excellent nanny,’ the doctor said. ‘But a baby needs to be nursed by his natural mother and not some wet nurse.’

  Val reached down into the cot to retrieve Michael and held him close to her chest. She rocked him gently, crooning soft words, and noticed that it was time to change his nappy.

  ‘Well, I have another visit to make,’ the doctor said. ‘But do not hesitate to call me if the baby shows any signs of illness or distress.’

  ‘Thank you, doctor, I will do that,’ Val said and watched as he left the nursery.

  Val went about changing the nappy, and fed Michael with warmed breastmilk, saved in a bottle. As she fed the baby she fumed at the almost total silence from the boy’s mother. Only once had she telephoned to ask about the baby’s progress since she had left him in Val’s care. Even then there was little love expressed for Michael. How could any mother be so cold? Val asked herself. She gazed into the face of the little boy and thought that he was smiling at her.

  ‘Well, young Michael,’ she said, ‘you may not have your mother but you will always have me, I promise you that.’

  Outside the sprawling farmhouse the winds rose, bringing cold sleeting rain. Inside the house a log fire brought warmth to the nursery.

  *

  The roar of the twin Beaufighter engines subsided as Pilot Officer Charles Huntley prepared to exit his aircraft on the sun-baked airstrip at Milne Bay. Through the perspex of his cockpit window he could see the squadron commander chatting to another pilot, and when Charles finally stepped into the shimmering heat the squadron leader signalled for him to join him at the edge of the landing strip.

  ‘How did it go?’ the squadron leader asked.

  ‘Not much to report,’ Charles answered. ‘I think our bash at the Japs over the Bismarck Sea has taken the wind out of their sails. We didn’t see a single target of opportunity on which to use up a bit of ordinance.’

  ‘Well, you can provide our intel people with any details at the briefing in half an hour,’ the squadron leader said. ‘Right now I would like to have a little talk with you, Charles.’

  Charles immediately wondered what he had done wrong to have the respected squadron leader wish to talk to him outside the briefing.

  ‘Don’t look so worried,’ the squadron leader said with a smile. ‘I received a signal while you were out on your sortie that the RAAF wants one of our chaps to transfer to flying Spitfires, for the defence of Darwin. I do not want to lose you as you are one of the best pilots I have, but I have to bend to the needs of our service. Would you be interested in the transfer? It would mean going to Sydney to do an aircraft familiarisation course before flying out to Darwin.’

  Charles well knew the reputation of the famous British fighter planes, which had been firmly established in 1940 during the Battle of Britain. ‘It is hard to give up flying the Beaufighter,’ he replied, but the posting would put him back on Australian soil, close to the son he had not yet seen. Besides, after the Battle of the Bismarck Sea, flying patrols in empty skies had become somewhat boring, especially when he knew that Darwin was still copping Japanese air raids on a fairly regular basis. It was a chance to get back into the shooting war. ‘But I wouldn’t mind having a bash at flying Spitties, sir.’

  ‘Good chap,’ the squadron leader said. ‘I will inform our orderly room that you are to fly out tomorrow for Cairns. Lucky chap, you will be able to have a cold beer back home. No doubt you will also be granted some local leave. I believe that you are from Sydney.’

  ‘It has been my home,’ Charles said. ‘I actually hail from Canberra.’

  ‘Ah yes, the home of our wonderful war makers,’ the squadron leader said with a hint of sarcasm in his voice. ‘Well, I will see you at the debrief, but first join the others for a quick cuppa. No doubt it will be your shout in the mess again tonight, this time to celebrate getting out of here and back to civilisation.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Charles said, saluting his commanding officer.

  Charles stood for a moment taking in the implications of the transfer. He had originally been reluctant to serve his country in the armed forces, but when he had done so, he had made a full commitment to do so. He was already credited with shooting down four enemy aircraft, and one more would make him an ace. The Spitfires were perfect for bringing down Japanese Zero fighters and Betty bombers.

  Charles turned his head to look at the squat but deadly Beaufighter. He would miss her, but he was going home and would soon get to hold his son in his arms.

  Six

  Sarah was fuming. She had naively lent Allison a good evening dress, only to have her throw herself at David Macintosh in it. Had she known why Allison wanted it, she would have refused to lend it to her.

  Sarah sat in her office with little thought for the reports piled up in front of her. Allison had said her only interest in keeping contact with David was that of a dutiful and patriotic Australian woman, giving support to a soldier on the battlefront. But rumours had reached Sarah that David had been seen in almost constant contact with Allison since his return from New Guinea. The two had been seen dining and dancing around the city’s most prestigious establishments. She was so furious at this betrayal that she barely noticed her brother step into her office.

  ‘I have had a request for you to action a report on your desk,’ he said. ‘It seems you are distracted from your work.’

  ‘Did you know that David was back in town?’ Sarah asked, glancing up at her brother with an expression of dark anger.

  ‘Of course,’ Donald shrugged. ‘We have met for a couple of beers at the pub. He looks to be in good shape, considering the rigours of the campaign up north.’

  ‘Why has he not made contact with me?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘I suppose it is because you are a married woman with a child, and David may not want to cause any rumours that might bring your reputation into disrepute.’

  ‘But we are cousins,’ Sarah said. ‘What harm is there in us meeting?’

  ‘I guess David has been a bit occupied with his course, and seeing your best friend,’ Donald said with full knowledge that this observation would upset his ambitious sister. The war between the siblings raged unabated for the absolute control of the family fortunes upon the death of their father. ‘You are surely not upset that Allison is seeing David?’ Donald smirked.

  ‘No, no,’ Sarah dismissed the question with a wave of her hand. ‘I will give my attention to that report now,’ she said.

  ‘Good,’ Donald said. ‘I will see you this afternoon at our board of management meeting.’

  ‘By the way,’ Sarah said as Donald was about to leave her office. ‘How is your American Red Cross lady friend, Miss Olivia Barrington. I heard that she returned to the States to visit her sick grandfather, James Barrington Senior.’

  ‘She left a few weeks ago,’ Donald replied, realising that his sister was needling him. ‘We remain good friends.’

  Sarah smiled for the first time, and Donald knew it was simply because she had caused him a small hurt. Olivia was more than simply a girlfriend. He was on the verge of asking her to marry him. He had been in agony to do so because just one small matter had held him back, and that was his contact with Jessica Duffy. He had tried to tell himself that he no longer loved her but a tiny, ferocious fire still burned, deep in his feelings for her. It was the only real issue in his life he could not make a decisive decision on.

  ‘I will see you at the meeting,’ he said again as he left his sister’s office.

  Sarah did not immediately attend to the report she was supposed to action but instead s
tared at the wall opposite. She had an overwhelming desire to see David again – despite all common sense saying this was not right. Just for a fleeting moment she thought about her baby. Would she tell David he was the father? Sarah considered the question for a moment. No, she was establishing a reputation in a business world dominated by middle-aged men who already resented a young woman holding so much power; a scandal like this could be used by them to erode her position, and she would not allow that to happen.

  But Allison Lowe was now an enemy she could go after with all her energy. No one – not even a best friend of many years – came between her and David Macintosh.

  *

  War stress, combat exhaustion, battle fatigue . . . no matter the term, Captain James Duffy, United States Marine Corps aviator, guessed that this had been stamped in his medical file after the battle for Guadalcanal in 1942. He had been treated in New Zealand for his physical injuries, and had also been seen by a psychiatrist before being granted medical leave in Australia, where he had been able to catch up with his twin sister, Olivia, who went by their family name of Barrington. James had chosen to adopt his father’s family name of Duffy to honour the man he had come to know later in his life, and lose just as quickly to an Iraqi assassin’s bullet back in 1936.

  At the end of his leave he had expected to rejoin his squadron on the Big E – the aircraft carrier USS Enterprise – which had seen more action than any other single carrier in the Pacific seas. Battered and bruised from numerous attacks by Japanese aircraft, she had remained afloat to fight back, and had even been awarded a Presidential Citation from Admiral Chester Nimitz.

  James, however, had not been aboard the carrier when the prestigious award had been bestowed on her, as he was living the life his marine comrades could only dream about. James had been detached to assist the government raise war bonds in Hollywood. He had been informed that with his leading-man looks, silver star on his chest and aviation wings as a fighter pilot, the public would love him.

  James thought this was simply an excuse to get him out of the skies. He knew that his superiors considered him a mental wreck and thus not trustworthy to fly operations for a long time, if ever, and the frustration of being away from the flight deck of the ship he considered his home was slowly killing him.

  He sat on the balcony of his Los Angeles hotel in the warmth of the summer sun, wearing a T-shirt and slacks and gazing out across the city. He held a rum and ice in one hand, although it was only nine in the morning, and considered whether he should just get falling-down drunk. Today he was supposed to be an advisor to a film about marine corps pilots flying courageous actions against the treacherous Jap bastards he had fought in real life. A car was scheduled to pick him up in an hour and James thought that was enough time to get well and truly blasted. He had friends fighting and dying in the skies over the Pacific, and here he was – a pretend hero.

  James knocked back three good slugs of rum before dressing in his pressed summer-issue uniform in time to be on post in the foyer for his ride to the movie lot. Getting wildly drunk wasn’t really a possibility – he could not afford a bad report if he had any hope of getting back into the cockpit of a Wildcat fighter. He had to carry out this duty and prove that he was not suffering battle fatigue. Still, the rum had helped take the edge off the morning.

  His driver arrived, a young Italian kid employed by the studio to chauffeur clients and actors. He opened the door and threw a salute at James. ‘Welcome aboard, Captain Duffy,’ he said, sounding for all the world like a naval officer in a movie.

  James made no comment and climbed into the rear seat to find a newspaper waiting for him there. The headlines were about the fighting in the very northern Aleutian Islands against an entrenched Japanese force. Japan had actually occupied United States sovereign territory, and that was a serious blow to American pride. Thankfully the news was good, though, as American forces fighting in the bitter cold of the sub-Arctic islands were slowly dislodging the tough Japanese soldiers. He skimmed the rest of the news, but did not see much about the war in the Pacific. The paper was more intent on distracting its readers with Hollywood gossip, real estate prices and the joys of drinking Coca-Cola.

  ‘You a fighter ace, Captain?’ the young driver asked over his shoulder, and James glanced up from his paper. ‘Or someone famous, like Frank Sinatra?’

  ‘Yes to the first question, and no to the second,’ James answered irritably. The kid was a punk who should have been in uniform rather than in a cushy job like this.

  ‘Hey, that’s great about being an ace,’ the kid said with genuine admiration in his voice, and James chided himself for being so surly towards the young man.

  ‘What’s your name, kid?’ James asked.

  ‘Angelo Valentino,’ the driver replied. ‘My pals call me Angel, because the girls fall over me like they did the man himself.’

  James knew he was referring to the famous silent-movie heart-throb, Rudolph Valentino. ‘Yeah, I can see that,’ James said with a slight smile. ‘I suppose you took this job so that one day you will be noticed and become a famous film star like your namesake.’

  ‘Na,’ the boy said. ‘I enlisted in the marines last week, and I’m off for training in a week. I got two brothers in the army. But the army is for sissies.’

  James was taken by surprise; he had clearly underestimated the kid. Maybe Hollywood was not all it seemed after all.

  They arrived at the studios, and after passing through the security gates found themselves weaving in and out of hordes of Indian braves, Civil War soldiers and a couple of crews of pirates streaming from the huge sheds that housed the film sets.

  ‘This is your one, Captain,’ Angelo said, stopping before one of the sheds. ‘Hope you have a good day.’

  James extracted himself from the vehicle and walked around to the driver’s window. He leant in. ‘Son, I just want to shake your hand and wish you all the luck in the world as a gyrene.’

  Taken by surprise, the young man accepted James’s firm handshake. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said. ‘I heard the girls go for a man in uniform.’

  James looked at him, and for a moment he had a flashback to the terrible fighting on the ground and in the air at Guadalcanal. He saw the smashed bodies of young men around the age of this boy, bloating under a tropical sun. They would never get to wear their fancy dress blues to impress their hometown girls. They would just be names etched in stone on some memorial. Yet here in his homeland the conflict felt as though it were taking place on another planet. It was only the great numbers of military uniforms on the streets of Los Angeles that reminded citizens they were at war.

  Angelo drove away, and James walked through a side door into the cavernous building cluttered with lights, cameras, stages and sets. He could see a portion of a Wild Cat fighter and knew that only a part of the plane was used in filming so that the cameramen could place their equipment to take close-ups of the actor in the cockpit.

  ‘Excuse me,’ an annoyed female voice said from behind him, ‘but aren’t you supposed to be dressed in your flying gear?’

  James turned to see two big eyes watching him from a pale, elfin-shaped face. The woman had long dark hair flowing around her shoulders, and she held a clipboard to her chest. He guessed she was barely in her twenties, and her accent had a touch of the South.

  ‘Who, me?’ he replied, turning to get a better look at her. She only came to his chin, and James saw immediately that she was pretty, but not with the staged beauty of the female stars he had come into contact with during his brief time with the studio.

  ‘Yes,’ the young woman replied, approaching him and then stopped a couple of paces away. ‘Oh, I am so sorry,’ she said. ‘I thought that you were our lead in the production. I should be wearing my glasses.’

  ‘Well, if you thought I was the star, then I am flattered,’ James said with a grin. ‘I am Captain James Duffy.’ He reached o
ut his hand and she shook it. It was small, and he sensed her shyness.

  ‘My name is Julianna Dupont,’ she said. ‘I’m from New Orleans.’

  ‘French name and all,’ James said, and his flippant observation seemed to annoy the young woman.

  ‘It is an old and honourable family name,’ she said defiantly, and despite her diminutive stature there was fire in her almost violet-coloured eyes. ‘I am not one of those Cajuns you Yankees make fun of.’

  ‘How did you know I was a Yankee?’ James countered.

  ‘Because of your accent,’ she answered. ‘I would guess that you come from one of the states close to the Canadian border.’

  ‘Very good, Miss Dupont,’ James replied.

  ‘It is my job to know things,’ Julianna said, lifting her chin. ‘I am the script assistant on this film, and one day I will write the scripts myself.’

  ‘So you are not only beautiful but you also have brains,’ James said and saw Julianna blush at such a forward statement.

  ‘I have to speak with the script editor,’ she said, and turned on her heel.

  James watched her go, then turned back to the film set, which was filling with technical people setting up lights, cameras and sound microphones. He saw a handsome young man step forward and begin to talk to a man wearing a sleeveless jumper and beret. He had to be the director, because behind him was a folding chair with the word director stencilled on it.

  ‘Good morning, Captain Duffy,’ a voice said behind him, and James turned to see his military chaperone, Lieutenant Guy Praine from the army public relations department. ‘I am pleased to see you here.’

  ‘But what the hell am I doing here?’ James asked.

  ‘It is just a PR job,’ the American officer said. ‘The director would like you to comment on the scene he is about to shoot with our hero taking on four Jap fighters over the Pacific. I believe you know what that feels like.’